Great Novelist

He looked at the resting cat. The cat doesn't seem interested in humans at all, but its little ears point this way. Every time I speak, my ears move. A careless hunter.

“Let's go. The cat's got the seat." ”

“Yes.”

He also walked gently. I checked the time and asked.

“You arrived yesterday? Director Zara."

“Yeah, let's just make a movie, see what we're doing in Germany. ”

The seat was full of tongue. He agreed with silence. He had been in the United States for about a month before he grew up. I enjoyed a comfortable life, but I got a phone call just yesterday that I arrived at the hotel. He's probably asleep by now.

“How long will that coin last in Germany? ”

“It's me. I stay until I want to be. ”

“Of course.”

He was recently roaming various parts of Germany. Dusseldorf, Hamburg, Bremen, Nuremberg, Schutgard, Berlin, Dresden, Bourne, Mannheim, Potsdam. That's all I heard from him. I didn't know exactly what he was doing there.

“Aren't you going to Mayoka? ”

“I won't. It's not Germany. ”

I don't take jokes. The Spanish island of Mayoka was a popular tourist destination for Germans.

“The piano I heard on Bourne wasn't so bad. ”

That's what Coin said. He was praising rarely. He heard his story without much emotion.

“This is where Beethoven was born, right? ”

“Yes, he's a German born musician. ”

As soon as he came to mind, he spit out German musicians.

“Bach, Hendell, Schumann, Brahms, Hoffman, Mendelssohn · · · · · · · · there was someone else. ”

The coin raises its eyebrows and asks.

“Do you listen to classics often? ”

“Not really. I don't know the details. They're all famous people. ”

I didn't know the specifics of their individual stories. Coin asks a question.

“The nationality of Mozart? ”

“Austria.”

He replied with no difficulty. Coin looks up.

“Vivaldi?”

“Italy, right?"

“Chopin?”

“Isn't that Poland? ”

“What about Nicholas Chopin? ”

France. "

“Why do you even know Chopin's father's nationality? ”

He scratched his chin.

“I'm in the middle of a novel with so many countries. ”

“What does it matter? ”

“It's snowing that way. ”

Coin says as if it were a test.

“What is the composer of Trout? ”

“Uh, Robert Schumann? ”

“Franz Schubert. ”

“Too bad.”

He tried to remember the sound of trout in his heart. Because I was walking like that, I thought the sound coming from a distance was hallucination.

“This.”

“A violin.”

It wasn't a trout, but I was interested.

“Let's go.”

The coin moves ahead without listening to an answer. A crowd gathers. The closer you get, the clearer you hear. He saw his grandfather play the violin. I felt stubborn in my strong glances, thick eyebrows, and Andamun lips.

“Sounds good.”

Coin mutters. He looks at those listening to his music. In someone's hand was a shopping bag, in someone's hand was a shopping bag, and in someone's hand was coffee. Everyone stopped on their way and took their time with him. Their eyes are steadily turned toward one place. It was the same for him. I stopped thinking and listened to him play.

“Carmen, right? Here. ”

You ask Coin. He nods. The violinist joyfully moves his bow. A few strands of thread ripped from the bow float through the air. Grandfather's hands playing the violin were blunt, but they flew freely over the surface.

Heavy and a little sad. I feel like walking on my toes while being calm all the time. He bounces the string twice with his finger. From then on, the atmosphere changed. The musician made notes by mixing the techniques. It must have a name. Carmen in red jumps out of her head.

The song is over. A quick round of applause follows. The player controls the shoulder rest and takes his place again. In the meantime, he stepped forward and put a note in the case. I looked up and saw the player's eyes. I changed my gaze. His mustache twitches. I thought I recognized myself. He started playing, showing off the angled chin line.

“Wow."

The gypsy song begins. This is what I'm good at. What do you think? I'm a very good human being. It was like playing like this. Fancy and glamorous. The sound he produces awakens the senses clearly in his hands.

“What a pair. ”

It's the voice of coin. The spirit that was immersed in the play returns. Turning back, the coin bows. I see a thermostat on the floor.

“I'm sorry."

The passerby confronted him with an apology. The coin spits out a small insult. His gaze was directed at the hot flask, which was spitting on the floor. He looked at his pants. The stain spread widely. The young man apologized again. The coin takes a deep breath and shakes its hand.

It was a harsh impression, but did not raise the voice.

“Go on your way. It's okay.”

The coin picks up a Thermostat. The smell of coffee spread. Violin and coffee. I asked him, thinking they fit quite well.

“Are you all right?"

“Do I look all right? ”

“I thought you said you were fine. ”

“What?"

“No, I'm not.”

Your eyes tingle. You don't look like you've been burned. He told me to give you the bathroom. The closest place here was his hotel room, so he said he knew. He walked the streets of Germany, listening to music as it grew farther and farther away.

“Give me the robe. ”

“Here.”

He was always frowning because he was uncomfortable. Fortunately, he sells his favorite brand of coffee when he goes out into the street. The spilled contents may be supplemented. However, his expression is not good because he is currently obnoxious. Even if there is a good future ahead of us, if we are unhappy now, it will be of no use.

He went into the bathroom. Close the door roughly. He thought he'd go out and get some pants and coffee before he came out. I walked into the room to get my wallet. On my desk, I was left alone before I went out. It's full of German. The wallet you're looking for is visible, but you can't find it. I looked up at the ceiling for a moment.

“Let's just wrap it up. ”

I pushed both the book and the notebook, the notebook and the manuscript to one side. I put down my laptop. The cursor is flashing on white paper. He thought of the protagonist. He will achieve great things in the future. A few centuries later, his writing survives. Myths are passed down by mouth and hand. His music was hovering in my ears. A consistent tone is played repeatedly. A feeling of clarity that feels hands-on. He heard the sound of showers coming from afar, but it was not long. I closed my eyes.

“War. Myth. Music. The language of God. Sin. Treason. Record. ”

The trout rises back up the river. In the past, the world has become more colorless. Black and white. You hear a splash of water. Trout arrives at home. There was a red cloth hanging at the end of the world. The stiffness was blatant when I touched it. It was a mess with dirt and stains. You see the silhouette. You catch your breath. The familiar face appeared when I lifted it off the edge of the cloth. I really wanted to meet him. I stepped forward without even knowing it. I covered my face with my hands. I can feel the tail going up. The height that only comes up to the waist. Much younger. He hides himself in a red cloth and stares at him.

“Smells.”

It smells like a nosebleed. He smelled of beasts. On one side was a pile of bird droppings, and there were traces of rats gnawing on them everywhere. The cloth is wet. The ceiling is leaking water. You can see the black sky through the hole where one finger can enter. It's nightfall.

He looks around instead of lying on a rag. Rats and bugs are looking at it. I make eye contact, but I don't notice them. Reveal his hidden secrets. Beneath the hard plank hides an expensive item. The red body looks over your shoulders. The violin. He tucks it into his heart and heads for the cave where no one will come. There was no one there. There, one sheep escaped from the flock hides its body. He wandered around him.

“Where did you get it? ”

Finally, I borrowed a sheep's mouth and asked him. It was the ugliest, fattest sheep in town. Sheep speak human words. He did not feel any ideals, like a hypnotized person.

“Found it. Recently, the wealthy downstairs have escaped. You said there'd be a war here soon. I left a lot of stuff behind. ”

“This is gonna be bad if they find out. ”

“If you don't get caught, that's it. ”

He turns away to avoid nagging.

“I'm going to play now, so stop talking. ”

He got up from his seat. The user holds the radiant instrument on its shoulder. This is a natural posture. The sheep cry small.

“Listen.”

He moves his bow. I passed over the thinnest line. Just a rope and a rope meet, and a beautiful sound is made. Sheep's black eyes follow his movements.

“Where did you learn that? ”

“People are born crying naturally. ”

He played a gypsy song. The grief of foreigners, the violent lightness that suppresses it. He was flattered by Yang's admiration.

“I like ears. I can tell when you're crying. Even in the crowd, I can choose you. ”

The sheep asked directly.

“Can't you read? ”

I could see her lips. It was unnecessary to be interrupted by a good time.

“Can't you read? ”

“I'm a sheep. Animals don't have texts. ”

“I wish I had been born a sheep. ”

His playing turned sad. He seemed adept at expressing his feelings. An artist. His performance proved his existence in a dark cave. One note was his words and his letters and emotions. A violinist.

“Where's the sheet music? ”

Playing has stopped due to sheep interference. He turned to the sheep and asked.

“Music?”

“The records. ”

“Records?”

“People play on musical scores. It's a record of all the different songs in the world. so that others can know the song that one person created. ”

He ponders and snorts.

“I can play well without it. ”

“The song you played today will fade from your memory someday. ”

“ · · · · · ·. ”

The silence settles. Your eyes gleam. I let go of the violin. He rolls his feet and opens his mouth.

“Panties!”

He stopped his hand. Your ears freeze. Someone shouts nearby. Turning around, I confronted my blue eyes.

Violinist and God's Language (2) End

lim Han-baek